Bennett Landry used to live in a nightmare he thought would go on forever. Battered, broken and abused, the poor young warlock didn't think that he would ever feel safe again... until the Blanchard coven came and saved him.
Elijah Lillegard was always a hopeless romantic, hiding his romance novels and his sweet side away; picturing a beautiful, idyllic life with his mate by his side--completely under their spell.
Little did they both know, however, that fate had other plans.
Pulled into a mating bond neither one saw coming, Elijah now must contend with his picturesque future being shattered in favor of a mate who still feared every shadow that lurked around every corner. Bennett now has to figure out whether he sees a future for himself within the coven, or if he even sees any kind of future at all.
And when the past still comes back to haunt them both, can their blossoming new bond survive the trials and tribulations that await?
Under His Spell is the second book of the Blanchard Coven series. It is M/M, HEA, dark and moody, and is best enjoyed not as a stand-alone, but after reading the previous book as well!
Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08SW89TWZ
Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08SW89TWZ
Amazon DE: https://www.amazon.de/dp/B08SW89TWZ
Amazon CA: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B08SW89TWZ
Amazon AU: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B08SW89TWZ
Available for Kindle Unlimited
It didn’t happen every night the way it used to, but every so often, the same nightmares came back to haunt him. There was always a pair of blood red eyes watching his every move, waiting for him to mess up—always a cruel smile with fangs showing, ready to tear at his flesh.
Bennett Landry’s pulse raced. He felt this lump at the back of his throat from the tears that would no longer fall. There was a deep, rolling pain in his stomach that accentuated the dryness that went all the way from his tongue down his throat. He coughed and hacked, but felt no relief for the scratchiness in his throat or the audible protests of his belly. In his nightmares, his voice was always hoarse, but he continued to chant in a soft, low tone. Any thought that passed his mind was quickly pushed away in favor of continuing the almost guttural drone of a spell he’d been forced to cast.
As a warlock, Bennett was sure there was a hell. This was probably his own version of it—a punishment for karma left over from a past life. His soul probably inhabited some murderer of children or destroyer of innocence. Why else would he suffer through these horrid dreams over and over?
Most nights, he remembered feeling a pair of fangs impale him, like the phantom sensation of a pair of thin knives plunging into the crook of his neck. It happened in thousands of different nights and thousands of different occasions, all of them led to this ever-building delirium that settled in his feverish brain—so weak that he couldn’t concentrate, a fog descending over his consciousness—his vision blurry whenever he opened his eyes.
“You’re beginning to taste more and more like rancid meat,” the voice said to him angrily, and yet Bennett could offer no protest, not even a whimper, let alone a single tear.
Bennett remembered the threats, and this feeling in his chest like his heart was being yanked downward, through his stomach. Bennett remembered the things being thrown, the objects breaking and shattering all around him, with the intent of keeping him docile and fearful.
Shadows always loomed over him. At his weakest, all Bennett could hope for was death. There was the possibility that even that wouldn’t have saved him.
Everywhere he turned, darkness. Like the all-consuming oblivion after the moment of death, Bennett hoped it was just a tunnel of black ushering him into the next life.
Those blood red eyes haunted him. They were the one image seared in the nothingness, keeping him anchored in this life, staying his soul from moving to the next.
The warlock tossed and turned, but he couldn’t pull free. Bennett had to find a way out. The walls were closing in on him. He couldn’t breathe. He just had to find a way out. He had to get away from this…madman.
It was the barest wisp of a voice trying to reach out to him. There was the slightest flicker of light in the horizon that accompanied it, calling to Bennett. It reminded him of that moment of freedom when Bennett could finally escape the shackles that were forced upon him. The moment when he found the strength to undo the shackles of the young human beside him, and they ran out, hand-in-hand, into the light of day.
“Bennett. It’s just a dream.”
It brought him a sick sense of satisfaction to know that the monster that haunted his subconscious was nothing more than piles of ash scattered in the wind, and the image of his scorched body brought Bennett a sense of peace nothing else could have given him. It felt like a warm blanket had wrapped around him, securing him.
There was no more Marcel Dubois. Because of that, Bennett wanted to live.
Frey Ortega writes erotic romance, primarily of
the gay variety. She lives in what a friend affectionately calls “the
south-easternmost part of Spain,” which is an archipelago called the
Philippines. She’s a graduate of the Royal, Pontifical, and Catholic University
in Manila, with a Bachelors of Science degree in Psychology. Primarily, she
works as a writer, a novelist, and overall a homebody who spends way too much
time on the internet.
She loves writing about people, especially people of all different shapes, sizes and backgrounds, falling in love. You might also find her playing video games from time to time! Her favorite ones are MMORPGs, and role-playing games in general (and not just the ones in the bedroom.)
Visit her website at: http://www.freyortegawrites.com/
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